


incontrovertible evidence that the universe is on your case

by sunsetdawn20



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adam Young Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Famine and Pollution are bad at relationships, M/M, Nonbinary Pollution (Good Omens), Other, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, everybody loves Crowley and they want him to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24129445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetdawn20/pseuds/sunsetdawn20
Summary: Crowley is not entirely sure how exactly he and Aziraphale ended up being roped into babysitting the horsemen of the apocalypse but he’s above averagely certain it must have been one last petty fuck you to them from Gabriel.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Famine/Pollution (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33
Collections: Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2010, Bite Sized Bits of Fic from 2020





	incontrovertible evidence that the universe is on your case

**Author's Note:**

> Comment_fic fill, to bring some joy to the recipients. My challenge to myself: fill one prompt each day from the same day five years ago. The prompt for May 10 is actually from 2010! It was: 
> 
> Good Omens, Crowley/Aziraphale &or Famine/Pollution &or others, couples counseling

** incontrovertible evidence that the universe is on your case **

Crowley is not entirely sure how exactly he and Aziraphale ended up being roped into babysitting the horsemen of the apocalypse but he’s above averagely certain it must have been one last petty fuck you to them from Gabriel. And this time even Aziraphale seems to share that damning opinion.

It’s all God’s fault, really, but even Crowley can’t quite bring himself to truly blame Her for their current predicament. After all, turns out She’s rather busy at the moment. After that whole botched Apocalypse business She decided to look over the shoulders of Angel-administration a bit and try a more hands-on approach with humanity. The whole project is still very much in its early development phase by the looks of it but putting the horsemen on probation apparently seemed a safe bet right away. Except Death, of course, because, well, Death always had to have it his own way, so he’s still riding around on rusty motorbikes, creeping people out. Crowley never liked the bugger, but at least he’s not crammed into the flat just below Crowley’s like the rest of the insufferable bunch.

“It’s a bloody farce, Angel,” he points out every time he sees Aziraphale. “If they were at least yelling. There’s at least _some_ level of entertainment in that. But Famine excels at passive aggressive degrading commentary and Pollution, well, you know how they get. Pollution can argument anyone to exhaustion with their mute stares but just _once_ Famine tried to throw out an empty pizza box. Phew. The whole building was shaking from all that unleashed fury.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale says, finishing off a strawberry tart, failing rather spectacularly to keep the _rapture_ off his face. “They seemed like _such_ a fitting couple at first.”

Crowley shifts on the uncomfortable chair of the quaint little café and chooses not to mention the _other_ kinds of noises he so often hears from the flat below. Instead he says: 

“And War’s not bloody helping whenever she chooses to flitter through on her damned bike. She just keeps egging them on until all that bottled up rage starts bleeding through my floor, giving me migraines.” 

Aziraphale sighs, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, a movement Crowley always finds inexplicably endearing and gets distracted by for a moment. “Is it really that intolerable, my dear?” Aziraphale asks with concern in his voice.

Crowley leans forward. “My plants,” he starts, but his voice chokes from fury and he has to take a breath before he can finish: “Have started to lose their leaves.”

“That is unacceptable,” Aziraphale with sudden outrage. “Those poor darlings. That is it. We are calling backup.”

\----

It takes Crowley about three hours to figure out that Aziraphale doesn’t actually have a plan as to who that backup ought to be. It’s all rather amusing, Aziraphale up in arms, cutting quite the dashing figure extremely drunk and graceless while coming up with the most ridiculous solutions to their conundrum. And Crowley suspects at times he cannot keep the somewhat enamoured looks from his face, no matter how hard he tries.

They take the scenic route to sobering up for once, allowing alcohol to drain out of their bodies at a maddeningly human pace. Crowley suspects it is because they know that once they are fully sober they will actually have to find a way to deal with this whole situation.

It’s already late in the afternoon when Aziraphale miracles them some hellishly strong coffee and Crowley drinks it with a resigned sigh.

“I’ll just assume we will not be checking in with either of the Head Offices about this,” he says.

Aziraphale gives him a displeased but soft glare, like he doesn’t appreciate Crowley even mentioning that. “Would be rather unfortunate, I’d say. Even if there’s been some considerable… _redistribution_ going on apparently.”

Crowley can’t stop a grin from spreading on his entire face at the thought. “Where do you think Gabriel ended up?” He asks. “I hope it’s somewhere hot and damp,” he adds, taking considerable pleasure from putting emphasis on the last word. 

Aziraphale frowns at him but he can’t hide the smallest of smiles either, which fills Crowley with immense satisfaction.

“I suppose we could call Anathema,” Aziraphale suggests. “She may not be an expert on the finer aspects of the psyches of humanity’s existential nightmares, but she is romantically entangled with young Newt, after all.” 

Crowley just shrugs in agreement and after some nervous fretting from Aziraphale, the call is indeed made. Not that it does them any good. Anathema is sweet but very firm in her decision that if at all possible she would very much like to stay out of any kind of supernatural couples counselling for the foreseeable future. She does however invite both of them over for tea for next Sunday, which Aziraphale gladly accepts without even consulting Crowley first. And Crowley can’t help it, the thought that Aziraphale would consider himself entitled to make such a decision on his behalf makes his chest feel tight with an altogether pleasant ache. 

“What about Adam? He has two passable adults as parents, he might have some tips,” Crowley says to draw away attention from the colour spreading to his cheeks. “Or Pepper. She has a lot of opinions on other people’s relationships.”

Specifically Crowley’s. Specifically Crowley’s with Aziraphale. But Crowley would sooner drink holy water willingly than tell his friend that. For a brief moment he wonders if it is at all beneficial to the image of a former demon that his only three friends are a runaway angel and two above averagely opinionated 11 year-olds. But before the thought could turn into embarrassment, he’s suddenly startled by Aziraphale, who cries out triumphantly before quickly reaching for the phone again.

\---

“We really are unutterably grateful you could come here on such short notice, Miss Tracy,” Aziraphale says. He knocks on the door of the flat and waits.

“One always helps friends in need, Mr Aziraphale, don’t mention it.” She smiles kindly, patiently and Crowley is about 70% sure she is going to be torn to pieces in there.

Pollution opens the door, wearing pink dotted pyjama pants and a too large crumpled Queen t-shirt that Crowley once saw on War when she wanted to piss him off. Pollution is eating crisps out of a huge, family size packet and is staring at them impassively.

“Well, aren’t you just gorgeous,” Madame Tracy says with a slightly startled, warm smile. 

“Who is it, _Polly_ ,” Famine’s casually dismissive tone can be heard from inside. Pollution’s expression doesn’t change but they reach inside the packet, pull out a fistful of potato crisps and out of protest stuff as much of it in their mouth as they can fit. Crumbs are falling everywhere on the ground and on Pollution’s clothing but they don’t seem to care. Eventually Pollution just walks back inside the flat, leaving the door open.

For a few moments all three of them just stare after Pollution, but then Madame Tracy recovers and walks inside, closing the door behind her.

“Pollution has an aquarium with oil spilled in the water and all kinds of dead fish,” Crowley says, blinking at the closed door. “Famine cooked one for Pollution once, proper three star fancy meal but tasting like rot and death. They bloody _liked_ it.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale wrings his hands. “I think I need a cup of tea to calm my nerves. Would you mind terribly if…”

“Not at all, Angel . Mi casa es su sanctuary,” he says with a wide grin, then can’t help but add: “Those ungrateful plants have missed you.”

\---

“No. Absolutely fucking no.” Crowley is marching up and down his living room, fuming with anger, which neither Aziraphale, nor Madame Tracy, who are sitting on his sofa sipping tea calmly, seem to take sufficiently serious.

“But don’t you see, my dear Crowley, it is the perfect solution,” Aziraphale smiles, eyes bright with excitement.

Crowley stops in his tracks and glares at him. “How exactly is giving my flat over to those _lunatics_ a solution?”

“Well, don’t you see?” Aziraphale smiles patiently. “Miss Tracy is right, it’s not that Famine and Pollution don’t care about each other, quite the opposite. They just need space to be who they are without being in each other’s way.”

“What about _my_ space to be who I am?” Crowley yells indignantly but nobody seems to pay him any attention, not even his plants, who seem way to excited at the prospect of a change of scenery.

“You’ll see, Mr Crowley,” Madame Tracy beams, “Just a few days after one of them moves up here, all will be right as rain between them again.”

“Wonderful. Absolutely bloody wonderful,” Crowley’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “And where _exactly_ am I supposed to live?”

That finally stops Aziraphale’s intolerably cheerful grinning and he looks down at his hands, a soft blush spreading on his cheeks. “Well, I kind of thought that was…” he clears his throat. “The flat above my shop is strangely somewhat more spacious since Adam restored it and… I would not mind the company.”

He glances up at Crowley, who can only blink stupidly for a few moments. It’s only when Madame Tracy clears her throat a full minute later that Crowley realises he stopped breathing altogether.

“I… I’m not sure…” He stammers.

“Of course,” Aziraphale cuts him off nervously and stands up. “I shouldn’t have presumed that arrangement would be amenable to you.”

“It’s not that…” Crowley quickly says hating to see his angel so dejected. His chest feels tight, his lips dry and his hands are trembling ever so slightly. “I just don’t want the same to happen to us in a few months” It’s not the whole truth but it’s close enough.

Aziraphale’s expression softens and he says: “That could never happen to us, Crowley. We like each other’s company too much-“

There is something so fond and hopeful in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley is completely powerless against it. A small, treacherous voice in the back of his head says that he’s been powerless against the angel long before they first talked to each other 6000 years ago. He supposes God’s to blame for that little construction flaw as well.

He sighs dramatically and says: “Fine, if you insist,” then he adds quickly “But no playing sodding Vivaldi to my plants. That is absolutely unforgivable.”

“On my honour,” Aziraphale grins happily.

“Well,” Madame Tracy puts her tea down and smiles. “Isn’t that just a wonderfully surprising and entirely unforeseeable turn of events?” 

\---

On a perfectly ordinary sunny Saturday morning in a Tadfield park, Adam is sitting in the grass, eating a chocolate bar and is watching his friends play with Dog.

“Pepper says you owed us” he tells Pollution, who is sitting cross-legged in the high grass, twirling the wrapping of Adam’s chocolate bar around an index finger. “You know, for wanting to end the world.”

Pollution looks at him expressionlessly. Adam shrugs.

“She’ll get around,” he says. “Once Crowley is happy. She likes him. We all do.”

Pollution remains silent, smoothes the wrapping paper out with short black nails. Then they tear it in two equal halves.

“How long do you think until they get together properly? Anathema says everything good needs its time.” Adam frowns.

There is no answer, Pollution just twirls the two wrapping paper halves around each other, but Adam doesn’t seem to expect one anyway and just continues:

“I hope Aziraphale likes the changes in his flat I made for them.”

Pollution looks at him, as if about to say something, but just then Pepper calls over, and Adam gets up from the ground and runs over to his friends. Pollution watches him go, then untangles the two wrapping paper strands, throws away one and pockets the other. Who knows, maybe God gives away brownie points for trying.


End file.
